


Say Uncle

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Birthday Party, Chuck E. Cheese's, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fatherhood, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Married Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Mild Language, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: Newly married to Sansa, the love of his life, Sandor Clegane doesn't believe that he would ever make a decent father.  While enduring his nephew's birthday party at a kid-friendly restaurant and arcade, Sandor finally realizes that with Sansa, anything is possible.





	Say Uncle

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written for all you parents, aunts, and/or uncles out there who have had to endure a day of torture at the mouse house...and I ain't talking about Disney here, folks! So, let's kick back and enjoy this fluffy, syrupy-sweet tale about how Sandor comes to the realization that he actually wants to have kids with his lovely new wife, Sansa.
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not. 
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

Everyone in the city of Westeros who had the distinct pleasure of meeting Sandor Clegane instantly knew that he was a man of very few words.

And right now, while standing in the middle of perhaps the loudest, gaudiest, kid-filled establishment known in the history of all mankind, the only three words that seemed to be dancing around in Sandor’s noise-addled brain, playing over and over again ad nauseam in a continuous loop like one of those experimental tracks off the White Album, were “bloody,” “buggering,” and “fuck.”  And not necessarily in that order or in that particular tense, come to think of it.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in utter frustration while placing his free hand on his hip, Sandor stood all alone in the corner of the pizza restaurant or arcade or whatever the hell this place was supposed to be, willing himself to reign in the string of obscenities that dared to escape his mouth yet again.  In his twenty-seven years on the planet, Sandor had experienced a lifetime full of wide-eyed stares and horrified gasps from both children and adults alike, thanks to his disfigurement.  Although the unbridled fear or curiosity that most folks displayed when first laying eyes on his facial scarring was something that Sandor had trained himself over the years to ignore, the fact that he was literally surrounded by what felt like a million strangers, all of whom he could’ve sworn looked upon him like the Reaper himself, had Sandor dangling precariously from his wit’s end.  Agreeing to enter a place filled with a multitude of screaming brats and their over-indulgent parents was assuredly _not_ the best idea that Sandor ever had.

But being newly wed to the love of your life can make a man do terribly stupid things from time to time, right?  Like agreeing to have your profusely hairy chest waxed right before taking that honeymoon on the beach with your brand-new wife.  That was eventful to say the least.  Or letting the snarky, cranky, pain-in-the-ass younger sister of said new wife stay in your shared apartment for two whole weeks while the annoying little she-devil was in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out fight with her live-in boyfriend.  In the grand scheme of things, nothing that Sandor had ever done in the name of love seemed as ridiculously idiotic as his move today.  Spending his Saturday afternoon off duty while stuck inside a building full of tightly-wound kids who were getting high on their orgy of consumerism surely topped them all.

Finally releasing his nose, Sandor dropped his hand to his other hip, sighing as he watched the sundry kids running to and fro.  He tried to breathe deeply to calm his nerves, just like Sansa had shown him countless times in the duration of their relationship.  Chancing a quick glance over his shoulder, Sandor thankfully no longer caught sight of the freaked-out little bastard that had broken down into a crying fit not moments earlier.  Out of nowhere, the foolish imp had come running blindly around the corner of the Vegas-style slot machine section of the arcade, smacking head-first into Sandor’s ass.  Once Sandor had knelt down to the floor in an attempt to help the boy collect his formally full cup of golden tokens that had dropped out of the kid’s chubby hands, Sandor’s own eyes widened in awe at how utterly ear-piercing the kid’s banshee-like scream sounded.  And, of course, the little wretch’s mother had to go and put on airs, acting all mortified by her rugrat’s extremely improper yet totally understandable moment of horror, apologizing profusely for her son’s shriek of terror and finger-pointing at Sandor, all the while unconsciously allowing her unbridled shock and fearful eyes to scissor across Sandor’s mangled face.

If Sandor wound up dying and going straight to hell, as he had often been cursed by folks over the years, then this joint was the type of place that Sandor imagined the netherworld would be.

“Hey, baby,” Sansa smiled widely as she sauntered up behind Sandor, wrapping her long arms around his waist, leaning her head around his shoulder to grin up at him, “Mother says it’s time to head over to the party tables for pizza and cake.”

“Right.  Pizza,” Sandor grimaced, looking down into his beautiful wife’s delightful face, knowing full well that whatever food this place served, it was going to taste like grease or cardboard.  Or both, perhaps.  It definitely was a toss-up.  “Too bad they don’t serve alcohol.  A man could use a spot of ale while being tortured.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.  And we only have to be here a little longer, I swear,” Sansa giggled as Sandor turned toward her, now facing her and wrapping his own arms around her, pulling her into a loose embrace.  “I know this is not how you would like to spend your Saturday afternoon, but really, it means a lot to the family that you came.”

At that comment, Sandor couldn’t help but snort, rolling his gray eyes in disbelief, “Yeah, I bet your uppity big brother and his gorgeous wife would have been crushed if I hadn’t come to their son’s fourth birthday party.”

“Did you just call Talisa ‘gorgeous?’  Seriously?” Sansa guffawed, her ginger brows furrowing as she narrowed her cerulean eyes at him.  Licking her lips slowly, she stared hard at Sandor, pretending to be angry with him.  However, he knew each and every one of her facial expressions so well that if asked, he could draw a map from memory.  She was playing coy, alright.  In fact, by the way Sansa cocked her head to the side, allowing her auburn curls to slip slightly across her right eye, Sandor knew that she was teasing him.  And then she went and licked her lips _again_.  God help him, but that pink tongue of hers always made him think the naughtiest of thoughts.

“She’s not even half as gorgeous as you are, little bird,” Sandor whispered, leaning in dangerously close to her, relishing the slight shiver he felt coursing through her body when his lips barely ghosted against her ear.

“Hey, you two; get a room already,” Arya groaned as she flanked her older sister and her sister’s perpetually horny husband from behind, “We’re in a kid-friendly zone, for Pete’s sake.  Can’t you two keep your hands off one another for a minute?”

“Stuff it, Arya,” Sansa laughed as she broke from Sandor’s grasp, grabbing his massive hand and pulling him along with her as she began to walk toward the party area of the restaurant, “You’re just jealous that I found him first.”

“That’ll be the day!” Arya huffed, dramatically rolling her brown eyes and making a face slightly better than if she’d just downed a bottle full of castor oil, storming past the two of them as she shoved her way through the throng of patrons milling about the half-court basketball games.

Laughing boisterously as they followed Arya, Sandor and Sansa held hands like the lovebirds that they were, slowly ambling toward the rows upon rows of brightly decorated tables full of hungry, whining children.  As they approached, Sandor cocked his head to the side as he studied the five animatronic robots perched on the small stage at the head of the party area.  The fake “rock band” was lip-synching its ear-splitting version of some über-cheesy pop tune that Sandor vaguely remembered hearing while spending the weekend with Sansa, Margaery and Bronn that time they vacationed at that amusement park over in Dorne last summer.  Narrowing his silver eyes at the furry ensemble, Sandor wondered if anyone would notice if he slipped around the corner and into the door marked “Employees Only,” flipping the switch and turning off those irritating fuckers before they tuned up for another song.

“Are you two having a good time?” Catelyn beamed at Sansa as the couple approached, her toothy, perfectly white smile directed at her daughter and her daughter only.

“Absolutely!” Sansa replied eagerly as she shot Sandor a sideways glance, giving his giant hand a slight squeeze, tacitly reminding him to suck it up and be on his best behavior with her parents today.

“And you?” Catelyn fakely smiled in his general direction, her terse look of pleasure completely forced, “Are you enjoying yourself, Sandor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sandor nodded feebly, elated when Catelyn stopped trying not to glare at him and looked away.  Oh, how he wished that his captain would call him on duty this very minute so he could escape any further birthday party bliss.

With her head bobbing back and forth as she scanned the facility, Catelyn grimaced angrily at Arya, “Now where in the world are your brothers?  Didn’t you tell them that it’s almost time for the cake?”

Snorting as she flopped down into the booth seat, yanking a yet-to-be-claimed soft drink off the table, Arya responded dryly, “You know Bran and Rickon, mother.  You really think they’re going to come willingly if they have a video game in their hands?”

Sandor tried to hide his smirk as Catelyn huffed in displeasure.  Those two guys practically had an Xbox controller growing out of their hands on any given day.

“Where’s Robb, anyway?  And Edd?” Arya deftly redirected her mother as Arya sipped the soda, trying to get Catelyn off her ass.

“Still in the potty, I’m afraid,” Catelyn answered as she turned to face her husband, “Robb is trying to calm little Edd down.”  Sandor snickered slightly at hearing a grown woman, a grandmother no less, use the word “potty” in reference to her adult son like it was common vernacular.  Sansa shot him a warning look, silently sassing him to knock it off immediately.

“He’s been in tears for almost thirty minutes straight,” Ned sighed as he shook his head, “None of us can make him happy.”

Sandor had to bite the inside of his cheek not to interject with a question as to which person Ned had referenced:  Robb or Edd.  That little nugget would have certainly garnered him a round of hateful stares, but it might just be worth it.

“Why is Edd so upset?” Sansa pondered, waving at Talisa as her sister-in-law approached the table.

“Because Edd hates Charlie the Mouse,” Talisa sighed heavily as she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb at the extremely tall mouse mascot that was making its way around the party section of the restaurant.  “I mean, he _hates_ it.  He hates everything about this place.  When we first got here, Robb thought that if he took Edd over to see the robots that he’d like that.  _Wrong._ And then Robb tried to show Edd that it was all make-believe, so he took him over to see the person dressed in the mouse suit, thinking that would help.  _Wrong._ ”

As the Stark clan began to discuss their strategy to try to make “Little Edd” stop having a meltdown, Sandor’s brain began to tune out the chatter.  His thoughts drifted aimlessly, wandering down the pathway of self-doubt that Sandor frequently visited.  Sandor worried about one day being a father.  The idea terrified him more than any criminal he had dealt with in his five years on the force.  Although deep down Sandor knew that his lovely bride wanted a huge family like hers, he simply couldn’t wrap his brain around the idea of willingly passing on his fucked-up Clegane genes to a future generation.

Before they married, Sansa had vowed to Sandor that she would never put pressure on him to sire children if he was not ready, and as always, she was true to her word.  Content with the idea that they may never even have kids of their own, Sansa tried to find fulfillment for her motherly instincts by immersing herself in her class of kindergarten students at Winterfell Elementary School.  She volunteered in their church’s preschool on Sundays, and she spent as much time as she could with her auburn-haired nephew.  And on the few occasions that Sansa and Sandor had taken Edd out for ice cream or to the zoo, Sandor could see how Sansa’s smile never quite matched the look of longing in her eyes when she corrected a stranger’s mistake when they had commented on how handsome their son was.

“Here they come!” Arya shouted as the Stark clan’s conversation came to a lull.  Sandor’s attention snapped toward the small corridor leading from the restrooms to the main arcade area.  Robb was carrying Edd in his arms.  The lad had his face buried in his father’s shoulder, his small arms wrapped tightly around Robb’s neck and his legs doing the same around his daddy’s waist.

“Still upset?” Talisa quizzed her husband, her dark brown eyes obviously saddened to see their little one so miserable at his own birthday party.  Her belly swollen with child once again, Talisa looked tired and her ankles looked puffy, but like any good mother would do, she wanted to hold and to comfort her son, “C’mere, Little Edd.  Mommy will hold you so daddy can -”

“NO!” Edd furiously yelled into his father’s neck, gripping his skinny legs even more impossibly tight around Robb’s body, “I wanna go HOME!”

“Hey, I know!  Come see Grammy!” Catelyn said with an over-the-top giddy voice, “We’ll go over to the - ”

“NO!” Edd shrieked once again, shaking his head wildly.

“It’s no use, Mother,” Robb grumbled, hanging his head in defeat at his family, “He’s not going to go to anyone right now.  Let’s just get this over with, OK?”

The rest of the Starks, including Sansa, ignored Robb.  Apparently, they just couldn’t help themselves.  They all took turns trying to woo the young boy away from his father, all hoping to be victorious in their attempt to lure him into their arms or to convince the poor little bastard that those freaky-as-fuck robots actually weren’t, well, freaky.  Even Arya, whose public hatred for the offspring of others was even more legendary than Sandor’s own distaste, threw her proverbial hat into the ring, trying to engage Edd into a round of peek-a-boo while Sansa made silly faces at him.

And just when Edd started to slightly lift his head, barely cracking his icy blue eyes open to chance a glimpse of his aunts, who should saunter over to the party table but the mouse himself.  Decked out in a hideously dingy gray mouse suit, the underpaid and extremely bored teen whom had the honor of sporting the mascot get-up today came forward, waving and posturing like he (or she, to be fair, one couldn’t tell) gave a damn about any of the kids present in the building this afternoon.

“GO AWAY!” Edd bellowed at the top of his small lungs, causing just about every adult and child in the place to turn toward their direction, “I DON’T LIKE YOU!”

Embarrassment began to run rampant throughout the wealthy, socially-connected Starks.  Even Robb, who normally was the picture of regal nobility, seemed dejected at his son’s new round of outbursts.  “Come on, Edd!” Robb tried, bouncing Edd in his arms, all but begging his son to look, “Charlie is here!  He’s come to your party!  Look!”

“NO!”

“Sweetie, he’s waving at you!  See?” Talisa gleefully clapped before pointing to the enormous gray mouse wearing a vintage tuxedo and top hat.

“NO!”

“Edd!  Look!” Catelyn tried again, reaching out to rub Edd’s back, “He’s dancing for you!”  And sure enough, the teenager stuffed inside the mouse suit began doing a soft-shoe right there in the middle of the party zone.  Sandor almost lost it right then and there upon seeing that moment of idiocy, but before he could actually laugh at loud, he felt Sansa’s elbow jabbing him in the side, effectively cutting him off at the pass.

“NO!”

As the Starks feverishly descended upon Edd, each one offering to hold him or to comfort him, Sandor suddenly came to the realization that Edd needed someone who understood him.  No one was listening to the boy.  Edd wanted to go home.  He didn’t want to hang out with a creepy as fuck, 6-foot tall mouse with a sinister smile packed full of sharp, white felt teeth.  No wonder the kid was bordering on hysterical.  Could none of the Starks remember what it felt like to actually be afraid of something?

Now feeling his blood pressure rising as he continued to witness the Starks ignoring little Edd’s call for help, Sandor began to remember all of the various times that he had spent in his nephew’s company.  Fearful that he would make the little bugger shriek, Sandor had adamantly declined to hold Edd when he was born.  Still barely dating Sansa when her older brother’s son had arrived, Sandor had determined that he would do everything in his power to _not_ make that little boy upset.  Sandor wanted to marry Sansa one day.  The last thing he needed was him alienating her family because the heir-apparent to the Stark dynasty ran in terror every time Sandor’s face showed up at the door.

However, for some reason only known to the gods, Sandor’s nephew wasn’t afraid of him or his burns.  In fact, over the last four years of the kid’s life, Edd actually looked up to Sandor, both literally and figuratively.  While still a baby yet able to crawl, Edd loved to pull up on Sandor’s muscular legs, bouncing up and down until finally one day Sandor acquiesced, bending down and lifting the babe into his arms.  Much to everyone’s astonishment, especially Sandor’s, Edd never once cried in terror when his pale blue eyes landed on Sandor.  In fact, Edd simply reached out to brush his drool-soaked fingers along the ridges and planes of Sandor’s marred countenance, gurgling and giggling when Sandor playfully crossed his steel-gray eyes at Edd.

From that day onward, Sandor no longer feared upsetting Edd.  As the lad grew bigger and stronger, the young boy relished climbing all over Sandor, using his future uncle like a human jungle gym.  Edd loved to wrestle and to pretend that he and Sandor were part of an infamous superhero duo.  When Sansa talked Sandor into coming with her to babysit Edd for Robb and Talisa so they could go on a date night, Edd wound up taking Sandor by the hand, leading Sandor to the play room and holding a secretly pleased Sandor hostage for hours while they pushed toy cars and trains around the tracks.  Lately, Edd begged Sandor each time he and Sansa visited with the Starks to sword fight with his foam weaponry and to tell him stories of knights and dragons and fair maidens in need of rescue.

And it was in that moment while grinning about how much he adored his nephew that Sandor had an epiphany:

_Rescue._

Formulating one damn fine plan on the spot, Sandor decided that since no other Stark adult present today could see the forest for the trees, he would take care of business himself.  And the first order of business was simple; that motherfucking rodent needed to go.

Since the rest of the guests at Edd’s party were no longer paying attention to the huge fake mouse in question, Sandor quietly stepped over to the teen, who to his or her credit continued gyrating and wiggling about in some ludicrous attempt to win Edd’s imagined favor.  Now standing directly in front of the person hidden inside the massive suit, Sandor snorted; the mascot still only managed to come up to Sandor’s nose.  Leaning down to make sure the kid inside got a terrific view of his mangled face, Sandor narrowed his mischievous gray eyes, staring directly through the mesh eye holes of the mouse head as he spoke, “Hey, kid.  You hear me in there?”  The oversized mouse froze in its tracks.  Sandor thought he actually detected the furry suit begin to quiver.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Sandor continued, moving in for the kill.  “Listen,” Sandor spoke in a raspy whisper as he hurriedly glanced over his shoulder, confirming that the Starks, including his lovely wife, still weren’t paying attention, “My nephew over there hates you.  Can’t blame him really, since you’re scary as shite.  You’re even starting to give me the creeps.  So, why don’t you take this little token of my gratitude and beat it?  Yeah?”  With that threat couched in the form of a suggestion, Sandor whipped out his wallet, yanking out a handful of bills, wadding them up slightly before taking the mouse mascot’s hand.  Stuffing the money into the teenager’s enormous gray paw, Sandor cocked his head to the side.  “Deal?” he asked.

Sandor watched Charlie the Mouse closely as it rolled the rumpled money in its hand for a few seconds.  Leaning to the side, peering around Sandor’s hulking form to survey the Stark clan, without warning the rodent abruptly stood at attention like a soldier, shooting Sandor a mock military-style salute with its free right hand, spinning on its huge gray feet before he (or she, to be fair, just saying) bounded off toward a much happier birthday kid who was shouting at Charlie in glee over at the next table.

“Hey, Edd,” Sandor spoke softly as he approached the group of Starks still huddled around the young visibly upset little boy, “Guess what?  The mouse is all gone.  Uncle Sandor told him to get lost, so you can look up now.”

With that comment, Sandor could feel the eyes of his in-laws burning the sides of his already burned face, but he refused to make eye contact.  Really, he didn’t give a fuck right now what they said to him.  All he cared about was making sure that Edd stopped feeling afraid.

Upon hearing his uncle’s voice, Edd slowly lifted his head, chancing a quick glance around the restaurant, locking his eyes on the enormous object of his terror as it drifted further and further away from him.  But before the coast was clear, Edd caught out of the corner of his eye a glimpse of the animatronic robots still in full-swing.  And before anyone could say anything else, Edd quickly lunged for Sandor like a lemur hopping out of a tree in mid-flight.  Pouncing on Sandor so fast that Sandor didn’t know what hit him, the boy hugged Sandor’s neck, burying his tear-streaked, puffy red face right into Sandor’s broad shoulder. 

And without further ado, Edd unveiled the pièce de resistance for the whole afternoon, the true climax of his Oscar-winning performance which all but floored each and every member of the Stark clan, Sandor included, as the four-year old roared from the top of his pint-sized lungs:

“I WANT UNCLE SANDOR!”

Right here, right now, Sandor didn’t give a flying fuck what any of the Starks thought about him or his proclivity to swear or his lack of filter or his inability to make enough money as a cop to satisfy Catelyn and her social climbing ways.  In that moment, lost in the warmth of Edd’s snug embrace, Sandor realized that he would go to hell and fight Lucifer himself if it meant that he could protect this child.  Jesus H. Christ.  Sandor loved the little bugger.  And with that realization, one extremely enormous smile stretched across Sandor’s bearded face.

As the mouths of the bumfuzzled Stark clan, including Arya, gaped so far open that a man could park his motorcycle in them, Sansa sauntered over slowly, reaching up to gently push away the long, black hair cascading across Sandor’s burned cheek he had rested on top of Edd’s ruddy curls.  “You’d make a wonderful father, Sandor,” Sansa told him as she choked up, the tears beginning to well in her azure eyes, “I really wish you could see that.”

Unable to process his rapidly shifting opinion on fatherhood, Sandor looked down into his amazing wife’s slightly dampened eyes, seeing the love and adoration reflected back at him.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he replied cautiously, twisting and turning his huge frame ever-so-slightly as he rocked his nephew.

“About what?” she questioned, a tiny wisp of hope flickering in her eyes.

“About starting a family,” Sandor smirked in return.

“Really?” Sansa gasped, her bright eyes full of wonder.

“Yeah, really,” he answered, leaning down to plant a fast, chaste kiss upon her crimson-stained lips.

And later that night, after he had thoroughly thanked the gods both known and unknown that Arya, who had spent the rest of the birthday party texting her soon-to-be-forgiven boyfriend, had finally decided to pack her shite and go home to Gendry, Sandor made love to his exquisite wife, allowing himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, Sansa was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to hoping that Sandor's boys know how to swim up stream, y'all!


End file.
